


Great Grandma's Soup

by B_Frizzy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Lucky the pizza dog - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Protective Phil Coulson, Sick Clint, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Frizzy/pseuds/B_Frizzy
Summary: "You're sick and i feel bad because i'm prettyv sure I'm responsible, so i bring my great grandma's soup and watch movies with you"OrHuman disaster Clint Barton can't understand why Coulson decided to come take care of him (especially in that soft sweater and what the hell, Coulson wears glasses?), but he's not going to look a gift-Hulk in the mouth.





	Great Grandma's Soup

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt from anon :)   
> Thanks again to @veronicabunchwrites on tumblr for the prompt list!

Clint groaned when he saw the doorbell lights flashing. Whoever was there seemed to think that he would appreciate a rave right about now. Which he didn’t. He rolled over and threw the blankets over his head, content to ignore them completely. His bed was more important… than pretty much everything, basically. Except coffee. 

Especially since he had been sick for almost a week, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t showered the entire time. He only vaguely remembered cleaning up when he got home from the last mission, so he was probably covered in all sorts of disgusting crap.   
He could probably be considered an actual biohazard, and he definitely wasn’t suitable for company. His stink had stink, and his sheets were practically about to start melting into the mattress with all of the fever-sweat. 

Blanket over head? Successful enough at ignoring the lights. Or it would have been, if Lucky wasn’t so excitable, because he started barking and jumping on the bed trying to get Clint to get up (so that he could be loved on by the person, probably). Goddamnit. He threw the blankets off of himself, fully intending to give the jackass at the door a piece of his mind. But then he took two steps and promptly tripped and fell on his face.

Aw, blankets, no.

He scrambled up and kicked them out of the way (he definitely did not stub his toe on the nightstand in the process) and stomped to the door. He threw it open, choice curse words already on his tongue, but the words died in his mouth the second he saw who it was.

Phil Coulson was standing there (in an incredibly soft looking sweater that Clint had to resist the urge to touch), holding a huge stockpot with several paper grocery bags hanging from his wrists. And glasses. There were glasses. Since when had Coulson worn glasses? That was a sight Clint absolutely wouldn’t have forgotten.

“You planning on letting me in, Barton?”

Clint was pretty sure that Coulson repeated himself a few times, because he… definitely hadn’t been paying attention to his lips. His face. He hadn’t been lipreading. Jesus. After a few seconds he nodded dumbly and stepped aside, catching Lucky by the collar before he could knock everything out of Coulson’s hands.

“Let me just, uh. Get my aids.” Clint realized that he could feel Lucky’s fur against his legs. “And, uh. Maybe some pants, too.” He shuffled into the bedroom with his head down.

Nice going, Barton. Answering the door in just our boxers, looking like death warmed over probably, making an idiot in front of your handler-slash-the man you’ve been in love with for half of a decade.

Clint hadn’t done laundry in a while, mostly because he was sick but also because he was pretty horrible at life in general. His pants drawer was totally empty except for the pair of Captain America pants that Nat had bought for him (to tease him about his crush on Coulson, of course). His choice was wearing them or finding a mostly-clean pair of sweats off the floor, and he already smelled pretty rank, so a pair of dirty pants may not be ideal. Clean but embarrassing it was.

He tried to get dressed quickly, hopefully fast enough that Coulson couldn’t see how much of a fucking disaster his apartment was, but of course he wasn’t that lucky. Coulson was in the kitchen… doing dishes? The stockpot was on the stove and the bags were on the counter (where Clint was pretty sure his collection of dirty-enough-to-be-investigated-by-SHIELD mugs was about 20 minutes ago). And damn, did whatever was in the pot smell fucking phenomenal.

Okay, Clint was pretty sure this was actually a fever dream. Or maybe he was dead and this was some sick torture created by Satan himself, because there was no way Phil Coulson was in his kitchen, wearing jeans and an apron, doing his dishes and cooking for him. Honestly, no way. And wow, those jeans were really serving their country, the way they hugged Coulson's very well developed ass (it is not okay to grope your boss, even if he looked Like That.)

He stayed at the edge of the living room, not wanting to interrupt (but totally not because he wanted to keep staring at Coulson’s ass in those very well-fitting jeans). But Coulson was sneaky spy numero uno, so of course he heard Clint walking up. 

He turned around with a smile on his face (and wow, definitely not real, Clint was totally dead). 

“Natasha said you were sick still, so I brought over a few things, cold medicine, tissues, cough drops. And soup. It’s my great-grandma’s recipe, according to my mom. She used to make it every time I was sick as a kid.”

What… the hell was he supposed to do with that? Clint knew theoretically that Coulson had been a child once and had a mother and a great-grandmother, but he only knew it theoretically because the man had literally never mentioned any of those things before in all of the time they had known each other. And Jesus Christ, was he just wearing socks? Coulson had never taken his shoes off in front of Clint, even that time him and Nat dragged him to the Dead Sea after an awful mission.

He was pretty sure his face was doing something stupid when he said, “I don’t have a table.”

Yeah, his mouth decided to get on the stupid train, too. That was awesome.

But for some reason, Coulson just smiled wider? “I noticed. We can just eat on the couch. I washed a few bowls for us.”

Coulson turned back around and started digging in one of the bags, triumphantly pulling out… a ladle? Right, yeah, Clint definitely didn’t own one of those. And of course his handler knew he was a total failure and that he would have to provide one. For his great-grandmother’s soup. That he brought over. Because Clint was sick…? Nope, still didn't compute.

He handed a nearly-full bowl over to Clint (which explains the doing dishes thing, at least), followed by a ginger ale. From the magical shopping bags, because all that was in the apartment was coffee and milk for the coffee… that might or might not be spoiled now. Clint should probably check on that.

“Let’s sit and eat.”

Well, nothing to do by follow orders. Clint walked slower than he normally would so that he was absolutely would not spill soup on the only clean pair of pants he had. By the time he set the bowl on the coffee table, Coulson had already turned on the tv and somehow managed to get Lucky to lay in his bed instead of begging for food. Man, Clint had to learn that trick. 

Coulson flipped through Clint’s recorded shows before landing on the newest season of Dog Caps (that he had been saving for a rainy day, but he wouldn’t say no). They watched in silence for a little bit while they ate, following the story of Cheese the Malinois puppy training with the ever-imposing Rex. 

The soup was… absolutely heavenly. The broth tasted like it had been simmering for days, deep and delicious. The chicken was shredding instead of cut, like it had been too tender to cut with a knife, and it was perfectly seasoned. And it must have been a coincidence that it had rice instead of noodles, because there was no way Coulson remembered that conversation they had that one time in Moldova, when Clint had a little, tiny concussion and spent hours complaining about the year when he ate nothing but mac and cheese, because Barney won a “lifetime’s supply” of the local store-brand. Yeah, Clint remembered because it was the same trip that Coulson was shot and Clint had to stitch up his side (and got to touch that soft skin, and also worried his head off that it hit something more vital), but it was probably just one mission in a million for the other man. 

During commercial, he cleared his throat and said, “This is good, thanks.”

Good was, like, the understatement of the century, but hey, he managed to get all of the words out in the right order. And Coulson gave him another one of those soft smiles that kind of made his heart jump into his throat, so. Successful compliment.

They had both finished and set their empty bowls on the coffee table by the time the credits were rolling for the first episode. Clint kind of hoped there was more because he would eat his weight’s amount in that soup and die happy, but he wasn’t about to be ungrateful for what he was given.

Coulson put his arm across the back of the couch (the couch, definitely not his shoulders, settle the fuck down, brain) and pressed pause on the remote.

“So, I know this might seem a little out of left field, but I couldn’t help but feel responsible for you being so sick. I knew you weren’t feeling hot last week, but I still let you stay at your post in the rain for almost 20 hours. When Natasha said you were being your usual self, I thought I should come over and help take care of you.”

Yeah, okay, Clint was pretty bad about making sure he stayed healthy. And making sure to take care of himself when he wasn’t healthy. Basically, just taking care of himself at all was beyond his abilities. It was distinctly possible that he had only had coffee and cough syrup for the day and a half before Coulson fed him (though to be totally honest, he wasn’t entirely sure, which should probably be more worrisome than it was). 

It was still pretty amazing that Coulson had taken the time and effort to come and make sure he was okay. He could have just called and called his duty done. Even Nat hadn’t stopped by to check on him (so that he couldn’t “infect” her). 

Clint tried to find a way to say ‘you’re so not responsible, but I literally always want to see your face, and also are you actually here, because I’m still not convinced’, but all that actually came out was, “Oh. Cool.”

Good god, he was useless. He called over Lucky and focused on the texture of his fur under his hand instead of the urge to throw himself out of a fucking window. 

“The truth is, Clint…” Coulson paused. Clint kept staring, determined, at Lucky’s golden fur. That is, until Coulson’s hand started running through it until it met Clint’s. Coulson waited for a beat and then let his fingers link into Clint’s. “The truth is, I may feel a little concerned about your wellbeing than strictly professional. I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, and I think maybe you do, too.”

Clint glanced back toward Coulson, and hey, when did his face get so close to Clint’s face? And why was he looking at Clint that way, like his bedhead and 4+ day stink was actually appealing in any way? 

Coulson kept eye contact, looking hard. “Clint, if this isn’t what you want, you should speak now, because I really want to kiss you.”

Okay, fever dream, demon torture, whatever the hell this was, there was no way Clint was turning that offer down. He all but launched himself at Coulson, pouring everything he had into kissing the life out of his handler.

He could swear that Coulson was smirking that fucking Clint-you’re-an-idiot smirk beneath his kiss, which, rude. But fair. After a few seconds of letting Clint do what he wanted, Coulson took control. He pulled back just a little, slowing down Clint’s frantic motions and changing the angle just a little, and oh. 

Oh, that was very good. Coulson slowly licked across his tongue, making every motion feel like he was gently caressing every inch of Clint’s body. It was so much more intimate than, well… anything Clint had ever experienced. He could feel himself melting into Coulson, leaning close into his chest, giving himself over in every way he could. 

And really, hadn’t he been slowly giving himself over to Coulson for years anyway? It wasn’t just about a job, and Coulson definitely wasn’t just his boss-type-person. He had allowed Coulson’s opinions and decisions color who he was, mold him into a better man (even if that person was still a huge fuck up). He had given up even the idea of other sexual or romantic relationships, because they just didn’t seem to compare to the idea in his head of how amazing a partner Coulson could be. 

And all of this? Icing on the cake. Really delicious fucking icing, who kissed better than Clint knew was even physically possible, who was doing this thing with his tongue that made Clint feel like getting on his knees and climbing Mount Everest at the same time. 

Coulson’s hand swept through his hair, pulling lightly on the short strands at the back before letting it rest on the nape of his neck large and warm, and yup, Clint wasn’t going to move any time soon, not if Coulson didn’t tell him too. 

Except Lucky didn’t seem to have gotten that memo, because he excitedly jumped right between them and into Coulson’s lap, apparently unimpressed that his attention had been stolen.

He pushed Clint off of Coulson, licking their faces in turn, tail wagging hard enough to hit him in the chest with an echoing ‘thump’. Aw, dog, no. Cockblocking is no cool. 

Coulson’s face was a little red, and his lips were shiny with saliva, and man it was all an extremely good look on him. What other good looks could Clint give him? He smiled, a little shyly. “C’mere, why don’t we finish Dog Cops and go to bed?”

“Yeah, okay, totally. I remember how much you hate Dog Cops, and I would love to force you into watching more in pity,” Clint said, “but you’d better mean ‘have hot, hot sex and then watch Dog Cops in post-coital bliss’ by ‘go to bed’, because I want to jump you, like, a decade ago.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely what I meant.” 

They looked at each other for a second, Lucky still trying to whore himself for attention between him, then stood up at the same time. 

“Yeah, Dog Cops later.”


End file.
